by Alex Nye
“I thought I heard voices earlier?” she says.
I gaze at her, feigning innocence.
She does not see Darnley’s ghost who regards us both coolly from the shadows.
To her, he is invisible.
“It will be different soon, Jane,” I murmur. “Great changes are coming. I can feel it.”
Jane Kennedy folds clothes at the fire, smiles with her back to me.
She is distracted by her task, a quiet woman who follows instructions and does as she is bid.
“I’m sure, Madame,” she murmurs.
Fotheringhay Castle
February 8 1587
They came for me at nightfall, just after we had
finished dining.
Jane Kennedy had not had time to gather the plates before we heard a commotion downstairs and heavy footfalls echoing obtrusively outside.
They burst in without ceremony. Lord Burleigh was among them, his eyes full of delight.
Jane shrank back and my little dog began to bark.
Lord Burleigh lashed out at him with his foot, but this did nothing to quieten Geddon who snarled.
“Come, Geddon,” I said, and motioned my valiant little soldier to my side, where I offered him comfort.
Then I rose to meet their gaze.
“What have you to say to me, gentlemen?”
I knew what was coming, and wanted only to show them an air of courage and defiance.
Lord Burleigh cleared his throat before he spoke, and I stared at the point of his beard as it worked up and down.
“We are here to advise you of your sentence, Madam, that you are finally condemned to death by our sovereign, Elizabeth, and her Estates. You will be taken from this place at eight o’clock in the morning, and executed in the Great Hall.”
Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle drew in their breaths sharply, and Didier my porter cried out before he could stop himself.
“I have suffered much at the hands of my cousin, the Queen. Tell me, on what charges am I condemned? What is it you have found against me?”
Lord Burleigh met my gaze.
“The Catholic faith and your assertion of your
God-given right to the English throne are the two issues on which you are condemned.”
I smiled.
“You must leave me, gentlemen. I have much to do before dawn.”
Lord Burleigh and his companions stared at me, as if expecting something more.
“I said…leave,” I commanded them.
And they did.
This last gave me much satisfaction.
I have spent the remainder of my last night writing letters to my relatives abroad, chiefly my brother-in-law, the King of France, and ratifying my will.
But when that was done, I turned to my confessional diary, the journal that Jane Kennedy did encourage me to write.
Long before dawn I hand it to her.
“This is yours, Jane. To do with as you wish.”
She does not quite meet my gaze. But she takes the journal from me.
Inside it are my secrets.
“The true version, Jane,” I tell her, and smile.
If truth be told, I have never quite trusted any living human, in the end.
There is only one I trust, and him I scratch behind the ears. He nestles close, my little Geddon. Betrayal is not a word he understands.
He will go with me tomorrow to the Great Hall. I can hear them building the scaffold. Their hammering is but a faint echo, but still it keeps me awake.
I have no wish to sleep.
I will hide Geddon in my skirts and none shall stop me.
It is my only hope, that I conduct myself with dignity.
Fotheringhay Castle
February 10 1587
Didier, Elizabeth and I have been left to clear the chamber. We are no longer wanted or needed here.
Didier says that he will take Geddon, and give him a good home.
I look around this barren room and feel its emptiness. It is dark and cold without any life in it. My Mistress’s voice has left no echoes behind. She is gone.
If I believed in ghosts I could fancy that she breathes still, that the poems and songs she wrote fill the dusty air.
But I do not believe in ghosts, and her voice is forever silenced.
Her tapestries are packed into a chest made of oak. Like a casket, it will hold her dying thoughts. Impossible now to unravel.
But I have in my possession one last gift.
I pick up the journal and place it among the folds of tapestry which she spent so many years and months carefully working. Then I change my mind, lift up the lid and remove it again.
At nightfall, when the others have left, I light a fire, then I draw a stool close to the hearth.
On my knee is the journal – my Mistress’s last thoughts, her most intimate secrets. With this, I could tell all.
But I think of her little dog Geddon, and how she said that ‘Betrayal is a word he understands not.’
To be poor is hard.
Who would not sell their soul for the security of lasting riches, or the assurance that they will not be tortured or slain?
I do what I must.
I lean forward, and feed the pages of her journal to the flames until the last page crumbles to dust.
No one knows my name.
Historical Note
In October 1586 Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots was found guilty of plotting to overthrow Elizabeth. She denied all the charges and stated quite categorically that if others were to manoeuvre on her behalf, then there was little she could do about it.
Sir Anthony Babington was a young gentleman and a Catholic, who championed Mary’s cause and wrote letters to the Scots Queen, promising to help her escape into freedom. What both he and Mary did not know was that their letters were being intercepted by Sir Francis Walsingham, who had possibly also interfered with the correspondence. When Mary signed her name to her final letter, Walsingham knew that he had her. The Queen of Scots had walked unwittingly into a trap from which she would not escape. She had unknowingly incriminated herself and the proof could be set before Elizabeth so that she could no longer avoid the inevitable, and must have her cousin charged and executed.
Whether Mary actually knew what she was putting her name to is unclear. She certainly wanted to secure her own freedom, but it is doubtful she would have agreed to the assassination of Elizabeth I. What is clear is that Walsingham and Lord Burleigh were not above tampering with the evidence.
Elizabeth was reluctant to sign the order to have Mary executed, but would later claim that she signed it amongst a pile of other papers and had not been aware of its import.
Mary was executed on 8th February 1587 in the hall at Fotheringhay. She spent the night before her execution writing letters and making a will, to ensure that her servants were paid any wages they were owed. She claimed that she was glad to meet her fate, as it would be an end to all the sufferings and sorrows of the Scots Queen. It took the executioner three blows with the axe, and afterwards her little dog Geddon was found to be hiding in her skirts. He had been a comfort to her at the very last.
“In my end is my beginning.”
Acknowledgements
I would like to gratefully acknowledge Clare Cain and everyone at Fledgling for their input.
The idea for this book was first planted in my head unconsciously when I was a child and read A Traveller in Time by Alison Uttley. This is when the mysterious figure of Mary, Queen of Scots first sowed a seed.
I have read many books with regard to Mary Queen of Scots since I was in my early twenties, when I first began this novel. In particular Antonia Fraser’s Mary Queen of Scots; John Guy’s My Heart is My Own: The Life of Mary Queen of Scots; and more recently, Mary, Queen of Scots: Truth or Lies by Rosalind
K Marshall, Crown of Thistles: The Fatal Inheritance of Mary, Queen of Scots by Linda Porter. Mary, Queen of Scots and the Murder of Darnley by Alison Weir, The Captive Queen of Scots by Jean Plaidy and The Little Book of Mary Queen of Scots by Mickey Mayhew.
This is a work of fiction and it goes without saying that any mistakes or errors are my own. I would also like to thank the many friends who have always encouraged and supported me - no one should feel left out from that acknowledgement. Also Judith Nye, who was there at the beginning when I first conceived this novel, and tramped the streets of Edinburgh in search of inspiration.
My own parents, who are no longer with us but who definitely deserve a mention for the huge encouragement they always gave me, and their belief in me. I wish they had been here to see this labour of love finally emerge. My brother Nick Gollaglee and my sister Liz Kumar, also my aunt, Beryl Foreman, for all their love and support. Lastly, but not at all least, my two children, Micah Nye and Martha Nye, and my husband Joe Austin for all their love, patience, support and just about everything.
